The Adventure of the Empty Basement
by Deyna Ian Bloom
Summary: The newest resident of 221b Baker Street is annoying, stupid, shouldn't be clever at all, and is probably the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock Holmes. (But try getting him to admit that.)
1. Chapter 1

A.N. This story is set between Hounds of Baskerville and The Reichenbach Fall. When I started writing it, season 3 STILL wasn't out yet, and there's certain elements to the plot that happen before Sherlock fakes his death. So, remember that when reading. Enjoy, and remember to read and review!

-i-

Prologue

-i-

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF

Dr. John H. Watson-September 13

-The Adventure of the Empty Basement-

It is well known that the building I live in has a third apartment, which up until now has remained empty. Mrs. Hudson says it's because of the damp, and since I tend to agree with her on the subject, I believed that 221c Baker Street would always be an empty damp basement.

Recent events have since proved us both wrong, and I must report that 221c now has an occupant. Needless to say, this has ruffled the feathers of my flat mate, Sherlock Holmes, who dislikes his normal routines being interrupted, and since 221c is only a small bedroom, our new neighbour will be sharing the bathroom and kitchen of 221b. Sherlock is less than pleased.

It all started two days ago, which was a particularly beastly night. It had been raining since teatime, and as the day got darker, the rain grew heavier. Sherlock and I were still awake, even though the hour was well past decent. Well, Sherlock was awake. I was sleeping in my armchair, but he didn't notice, and was still continuing the conversation.

"It's so ludicrous that no one noticed the flowers were missing," Sherlock said with a grin while he plucked his violin casually. He had not yet become aware that I had dozed off twenty minutes ago. "Everyone suspected that the mother-in-law was guilty, which was of course ridiculous. One look could tell the only thing she cared about was gambling away the family fortune." Three knocks sounded from the front door knocker, but Sherlock stayed still, lost in his thoughts as always. "There's someone at the door," he said to me, and after getting no response for several minutes, he repeated himself in a louder voice. Finally, Sherlock glanced over and noticed that I was sleeping peacefully in my chair (I only know all of what he said before I woke up because he told me). He quickly slapped my knee with his violin bow, making me jump awake.

"What? What happened?" I asked in a panic, still half asleep.

"I said, there's someone at the door," Sherlock answered while plucking a few strings again.

I looked at my friend with disbelief. "There's someone….I was sleeping!"

"Yes, and I was thinking. That's more important," Sherlock retorted back to me.

"For the love of…" I muttered under my breath, and got up to go answer the door. That's when all the fun began.

-i-

Chapter 1

-i-

"You are so stupid, Violet," I muttered to myself over the steady English downpour. I'd never felt so stupid in my entire life. If my grandmother could see me now… She wanted me to see the world after she died, but I bet me wandering the streets of London, soaking wet, no hotel, and a broken umbrella, wasn't quite what she had in mind.

I felt pretty stupid.

Somehow I'd walked into a residential area near the hotel I was supposed to stay at, tugging along my bright blue suitcase, and mumbling to myself. Through the dense rain, I managed to make out a single light in the upstairs windows of one of the houses. Someone was awake at this time of night. Maybe they knew where I should go, or maybe they had a couch I could sleep on. I plastered on a face full of desperation, which wasn't hard to do, and marched across the street to ring their doorbell.

The letters '221b' were on the door. Right next to the door was a sandwich place, but to my stomach's dismay, they weren't open. I sighed and used the knocker to knock three times. No one answered for a few minutes, and I almost decided to try my luck somewhere else, but then I saw a shadow move in the window above me and heard footsteps on the stairs. Thank god.

A blonde man answered the door dressed in a pull-over sweater and jeans. He smiled so charmingly at me, I had to smile back. "Are you a client?" he asked me in his thick British accent.

A client? Was this a brothel or something? "Umm, no," I said over the rain. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but this was the only house with a light on, and there was a problem with my hotel and I just…" I breathed to stop my rambling and realized I had a few tears in my eyes. "Can I come inside, please? It's so cold out here."

Tears are men's kryptonite, usually, and this man obviously thought I looked pathetic, because he stepped aside and opened his front door wider so I could get past him. "Come in," he said with a gesture of his hand. I gladly joined him in the foyer and he shut the front door after me. "I'm not in the habit of making pretty women stand in the rain." He smiled at me again, this time less warmly, as if he'd decided I wasn't his type. Maybe it was the tears. "Come on up, and I'll make you some tea."

I followed him up the stairs, lugging my suitcase along with me. The living room at the top of the stairs was nice and warm, although the décor and wall colors said the owner didn't use this room to relax. It was obvious that the man who answered the door wasn't the decorator. Another man sat by the fireplace, staring off into space and plucking the strings of a violin resting in his lap. Black clothes, rigid posture, brown ringlets that wouldn't dare be messy. My eyes moved to the numerous stacks of books around the room, and I tried not to be excited at the sight of them.

"I'm John Watson," said the man who answered the door.

"Violet Stoner." We shook hands. "Thank you so much for letting me in. There was a problem with my hotel reservation, and I couldn't get a taxi because it's so late."

"Gullible," the other man said under his breath.

"My roommate, Sherlock Holmes." John gestured to the man with the violin. "And you can sleep here tonight, Miss Stoner. The sofa is all we have, I'm afraid, but it's warm and dry."

"Stop flirting," Sherlock said, again under his breath, no doubt thinking we couldn't hear him.

John acted as if Sherlock hadn't spoken. "I'll get that tea I promised you, so you make yourself comfortable." He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Sherlock, who was still staring off into space. I sat down on their sofa and started reading the spines of the nearest pile of books.

"How long have you been playing football?" Sherlock asked after several minutes of me contemplating if it was okay to pick up one of the books. "Or soccer, as you Americans call it."

"Pardon?"

"Sherlock, can you not do that right now?" John asked as he came back into the room with the tea tray. "I apologize, Miss Stoner. He likes to read people's life story from the dirt on their shoes." He set the tea tray onto a wooden table near their chairs and poured me a cup, then handed it to me.

"Thank you," I said before taking a sip. "Why are you asking about football?" I asked Sherlock.

Sherlock's head shot to me, his features looking bored, like I was a stupid child asking what Christmas is. "Your legs are muscular, and you have scars on your knees, suggesting you run quite a bit, and fall often. Your bright blue socks can only be part of a football uniform, and you've managed to find a suitcase of the same colour. Maybe you just like blue. More likely it's your team colour. Your nails are all manicured short because you work with your hands, so I'd say you are a goalie, and the fact that you have a slight limp probably means that you were injured during a game and are now retired, which accounts for the few extra pounds on your stomach, breasts, and hips. You're also obviously a book reader, since your back is somewhat hunched, and when you walked in this room, the only things you noticed were the stacks of books on the floor."

My mouth fell open and John almost dropped his cup of tea. "Sherlock!" He sighed, bottling his anger, something I could tell he did often. "I am so sorry, Miss Stoner, don't pay any attention to him."

Like I can forget someone who says I'm fat. "I don't play football," I said quietly, sipping my tea, and looking anywhere else in the room but at Sherlock.

"Yes you do," he said confidently, and plucked more strings with a contented cat-like look on his face.

"You don't play football?" John said, very confused. "You don't?"

I shook my head. "Never." I wasn't a sports person, so I couldn't fathom why someone would think I was.

John looked me over slowly, studied me. "But that doesn't…" He stopped, lost for words. I could tell that John was used to Sherlock being right in all his observations. The thought of Sherlock being wrong…from John's reaction, it never happened.

I guess there's a first time for everything.

i-i


	2. Chapter 2

-i-

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF

Dr. John H. Watson-September 14

-The Adventure of the Empty Basement Part 2-

Violet Stoner, our new neighbour, is having a smashing good time redecorating the basement. I thought at first that it would be a bit odd having a woman in our building, and also wondered if she might be terrified at the things that show up in our refrigerator. Sherlock continues to complain about the fresh paint smell and says it's giving him a horrid headache. When he protested to her, Miss Stoner simply opened the windows by his chair and continued with her work.

She has been working on 221c for the past few days and refuses to allow anyone a peek at her progress. Sherlock assures me it's nothing special, and her decorating choices are boring.

I'm sure his sulking was caused by his expert observations about Miss Stoner being incorrect. It is no secret that Sherlock Holmes prides himself on his impeccable skills, and the fact that he is never wrong. I myself am still a bit blown over by it, but I suppose everyone has a margin for error. Even Sherlock Holmes.

**2 comments:**

_I was not wrong. I am never wrong. I simply was too preoccupied to notice specific details about Miss Stoner that would have narrowed my observations down to the correct conclusion. And I resent that you would put this incident on your blog. Did I blog about you dating a woman who couldn't even spell chrysanthemum? No I did not. Sherlock Holmes_

_You WERE wrong. And Bob's your uncle. John Watson_

-i-

Chapter 2

-i-

It took me a few hours to fall asleep on the couch in the men's parlor. Partly because Sherlock kept staring at me and refused to go sleep in his room when John asked him to. I was startled awake the next morning by loud violin music, and fell off the couch onto the hard floor. The player continued his piece as if I hadn't made a sound. I looked up through a veil of my brown curls and saw Sherlock with his back to me, playing next to an open window as if the entire street paid him to wake them up every morning.

What was with this guy? I got up and noticed my suitcase was a bit askew. Most people don't notice when their things have been moved, but I always do. A quick check inside it told me someone had rummaged through it while I slept. My underwear wasn't put back properly. I had a sudden urge to leave.

"Miss Stoner," I heard John say while he trotted down the stairs to the parlor. "I trust you slept well. The sofa isn't exactly a bed of feathers, but Sherlock sleeps on it sometimes, so it can't be all bad." He smiled charmingly, then noticed I was rearranging my suitcase and had a guarded look on my face. His smile dropped and he turned accusingly to Sherlock. "Did you go through her bag?"

Sherlock played a long mournful note and lowered his violin. "It was necessary, John. She could've been an axe murderer." I looked down at my suitcase. I was pretty certain an axe wouldn't fit in it.

"Hello, boys!" a cheerful woman's voice called out from the stairwell. "I had some leftovers I thought you might like to eat for breakfast." An older woman walked into the parlor carrying a tray filled with crumpets and tea, and noticed me before she could set it down. "A client this early? You boys really should take a break."

John introduced me, but I was busy contemplating the second usage of the word 'client.' The woman, whose name was Mrs. Hudson, served John and I some breakfast before leaving. By the time I'd finished my first crumpet, I made a guess out loud. "Are you detectives?" I almost dropped my tea when John and Sherlock froze mid-action, and gave me the most incredulous looks.

"How did you know that?" Sherlock asked me. From the look on his face, I almost felt like not answering, and wished I'd kept my stupid thoughts to myself.

"You have pictures of bodies on the wall, and your books are about corpse decomposition, knives, and regional pollen. Either you're a detective, or you have some hobbies the police should be concerned about."

They continued staring at me for a few minutes, until Sherlock finally moved and sat down sideways in the empty chair with his legs hanging out. "It took you all night to come up with that? Pathetic."

John sighed and shook his head. "Even you have to admit that was impressive of Miss Stoner to work that out."

"How many types of tobacco ash are there?" Sherlock threw in my direction as he inspected his nails.

My voice croaked while I tried to think of an answer, but the only thing I could come up with was, "There's more than one kind?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at me and turned into his chair to ignore us.

John also rolled his eyes, and then smiled at me. "Well, I have to be off to work soon. I wanted to know what your plans are, Miss Stoner? I'd offer for you to stay here, but I'm sure you have things you want to do."

Before I could answer, Mrs. Hudson walked back into the parlor. "Mrs. Turner tells me I should keep trying to rent out the empty apartment. She said Mrs. Carrolton across the street found a tenant for her basement, and all she had to do was fix it up, but I just don't have the-" She stopped as she noticed me. "Oh! You're still here! Here I was having a conversation with John, and we still have company!" She laughed brightly and picked up the breakfast tray.

"Would you rent the basement to me?" I asked while standing up. "I have the money, and I'll fix it up for you."

Mrs. Hudson regarded me for a few seconds. "Well, I have an application downstairs. Let me go and get it."

By the time she had come back up the stairs with the apartment application, John was about to leave for work. She assured me that applying was just a formality, and she didn't see why I couldn't rent the basement until my visa runs out, especially since Sherlock had looked through my bag and not called the police (John added that last part). I set to work filling everything out while John went to work (What did he do, anyways?) and Mrs. Hudson went downstairs to watch "telly."

I'd been sitting on the couch for over an hour, having just finished the application, when Sherlock suddenly stirred. He hadn't moved since his weird question about tobacco ash, and I'd have forgotten he was still in the room if I hadn't been sneaking glances at him instead of writing on the application. Yesterday I would've thought it was impossible for someone to not even twitch for an hour. Don't his legs hurt?

"John, could you-" Sherlock stopped and looked around the room like a child who'd lost their mommy. "Where's John?" He spotted me and his face fell. "Oh. You're still here."

I wiggled my fingers at him and got up to stretch. "John left awhile ago. Did you just tune everything out for an hour?"

"I was thinking," he said simply. "You were raised by your grandmother after your parents died, your grandmother ran a bookstore, and always made just enough to get by. You nursed her through an illness, but she recently died, and left you her very lucrative insurance money so you could travel the world. As for the football socks, they were given to you by someone important. Perhaps they were your father's?"

"Well…." I said slowly. "You didn't call me fat this time." Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "My parents aren't dead, just my mother. My dad is still alive, and he did give me the socks. You were right about everything else." I didn't bother asking how he knew all that, but I would've bet money that he'd messed with my phone.

He stood up and snatched the apartment papers from my hands. "This is an apartment application," he stated.

"Very astute of you," I said sarcastically, grabbing it back. I left the parlor and started down the stairs to knock on Mrs. Hudson's door. She answered and walked me into her kitchen so she could look the application over. I stared around the flowery green room until Mrs. Hudson was finished reading.

"Everything looks to be in order," she said brightly. "I would love to rent you the basement, Miss Stoner. Whatever you buy to fix it up, I'll deduct it from your rent." She chatted about the damp, and then remembered a crucial detail. "The basement doesn't have a loo or kitchen, so you'll have to share with the boys upstairs."

The grumpy voice of Sherlock sounded from behind me. "She'd better not touch my dog hair collection."

-i-


End file.
